


Dream Girl

by harry_styleswho



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Character Death In Dream, Dream Sex, F/M, Major Character Injury, Post-One Direction, Weird Plot Shit, honestly i can't even tag this story because it's kind of weird, in a cool way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:14:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23601400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harry_styleswho/pseuds/harry_styleswho
Summary: “I love you,” she whispers, kissing his clothed shoulder.Harry’s face flushes, but for some reason, he responds with, “I love you, too.”And he doesn’t feel like he’s lying.Or: The one where Harry dreams of a girl he’s never met, but somehow, he feels like he’s known her all his life.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 6





	1. Monroe

Harry spots the back of her head first.

He isn’t prepared for the beautiful smile that curves her lips when she turns to face him.

“Every alright?” she asks, eyes sparkling a little.

Harry startles, head whipping around to see who she could be talking to. This causes the girl to giggle. Harry wants to hear the sound again.

“Me?” He points to himself in question.

The girl rolls his eyes. “Yes, you. Who else would I be talking to?”

Harry splutters a little, not knowing what to say. She stares at him for a few more seconds before rolling her eyes again. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever considered that gesture endearing before this moment.

“Baby, stop being weird and sit down,” she all but whines, patting the empty seat next to her. “The plane is going to be taking off soon.”

_Baby?_

Harry’s confused, and he doesn’t know what to do, so he sits. The girl immediately cuddles up to him, laying her head on his shoulder.

“You’re lucky I love you,” she whispers softly, and something warm fills Harry’s chest, “or else I’d realize what a weirdo you are.”

Harry chuckles for some reason, and he can feel the girl’s responding smile on his shoulder, so he doesn’t regret it.

_How could I not know her?_

“I’m gonna fall asleep soon,” she mumbles, sounding half asleep already.

Harry nods. “Okay, sleep, baby.”

For now, he can pretend as if he remembers.

When the plane takes off, Harry wakes up.

* * *

He’s not on a plane.

There isn’t a beautiful girl sleeping on his shoulder.

He’s in his own bed in his own flat.

_It felt so real…_

Harry rubs the sleep from his eyes as he sits up, checking around the room, as if the girl will reappear in his arms. She doesn’t, though Harry supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. Instead, he stands up and stretches and pretends like he won’t be thinking about the dream girl for the entirety of the day.

(He does.)

* * *

When Harry sees her again, he isn’t on a plane this time. He’s in his kitchen, cooking.

The girl makes her way into the room, wearing a shirt that Harry’s fairly certain is his and hair looking mussed from sleep. She’s knuckling at her eyes and stifling a yawn, and Harry hates himself for finding it so adorable.

“What smells so good?” she asks through a yawn. Harry can’t help himself from smiling. The girl sniffs at the air, perking up when she smells coffee and making her way to the pot. “Do they have chocolate chips in them?”

Harry looks down to the pancakes he has cooking in the pan. “Um, yeah, they do.”

“Mmm,” she hums, smiling before sipping at her coffee.

The girl watches Harry for a moment, and he feels her eyes on him like fire. He focuses on the pancakes, trying not to burn down his house. (He knows if he turns to face her, he’ll never want to look away.)

She doesn’t look for much longer, simply walking up to Harry’s side and laying her head down on his shoulder. Much like she did on the plane.

“I love you,” she whispers, kissing his clothed skin.

Harry’s face flushes, but for some reason, he responds with, “I love you, too.”

And he doesn’t feel like he’s lying.

* * *

“What’s her name?”

Harry startles, eyes widening. “Huh?”

Jeff smiles at him, squinting his eyes. “The girl. You’ve got this glow about you, so you’ve either been laid, or you met someone.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, simply avoiding eye contact and playing with the straw in his iced tea. He finds it odd to put ice in tea, but he supposes Americans do that sort of thing.

“Personally,” Jeff continues when it’s obvious Harry isn’t going to say anything, “I think it’s the latter, considering how much of a hopeless romantic you are. Love at first sight, aye?”

Harry shakes his head. “No, there’s no girl,” he says.

Which to be fair, isn’t really _lying_ , per se. There isn’t a girl. Not a real girl, anyway. But Harry still can’t get her eyes out of his head. Those hazel eyes with the long eyelashes framing just so perfectly.

Harry wishes he knew her.

“Just a good night’s rest, is all.”

Jeff doesn’t seem to buy it.

* * *

Harry finds himself sleeping more often now.

He takes naps throughout the day, even if he isn’t tired, but somehow, sleep always finds him. And when sleep finds him, so does she.

Suddenly, he starts to grow this infatuation with sleep that he didn’t have before. Sleep always has been nice. He’s always been a fan, but now, he’s counting down the minutes until he can sleep again. Which probably isn’t the healthiest, but Harry doesn’t dwell on it.

He dreams of small scenarios of his life with this dream girl. And the more he dreams, the more he feels as if he’s lived those moments once before. He didn’t, though. He couldn’t have possibly lived those moments before. He’d remember her. He knows he would.

But still, Harry feels a strong sense of déjà vu, and he isn’t sure how to deal with it.

“Why does this feel familiar?” he whispers to her one night.

They are laying in a bed he hasn’t seen before, in a room he’s never been in. It’s vaguely familiar, but Harry hasn’t seen it before.

“What’re you talking about?” she mumbles tiredly, cuddling closer into Harry’s chest. She’s almost asleep, but Harry feels as awake as he’s ever been–even if he’s technically sleeping. 

Harry shakes his head, instinctively leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. “Nothing, never mind. Sleep.”

“’Kay,” she murmurs before. “Love you.”

Harry just kisses her forehead again.

* * *

Harry starts going to therapy.

He doesn’t know what else to do. He doesn’t want to tell anyone he knows about his dream girl, but it scares him how attached he’s becoming. He thinks about her every day, wondering when he will see her again. So, there must be something going on his head, something odd that dreams this girl up.

“Is it possible to dream of people you’ve never met?” he asks the second his first session starts.

His therapist is an older woman with glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. Her name tag reads Dr. Danes, and she looks wise beyond her years. Somehow, Harry trusts her. 

She shrugs. “Technically, yes and no. Your brain cannot _create_ faces in your dreams, though it can remember seeing faces of a person you may have never officially met. Consciously, you may not remember seeing this person, but your brain stores images of people, and those can translate in your dreams–even if you don’t remember her.”

Harry’s attention piques. “Her?”

Dr. Danes feigns innocence. “Pardon?”

“You said _her,_ ”Harry points out, panic settling in him. He looks around the room, as if looking for any changes. Maybe he’s dreaming again. “I never mentioned anything about a girl.”

Dr. Danes’ eyes flit towards the clock. “Oh, it looks like we’re out of time. We’ll pick this up at your next session.”

* * *

Everything goes downhill from then. 

Harry can’t sleep. He doesn’t see her. He stays awake at night for hours on end, tossing and turning every minute or two.

He just wants to see her.

All he can think about is her, and it’s starting to drive him off a cliff. He needs to see her, even if she isn’t real. He needs to see her, because to him, she’s real. As real as it gets. He needs to see–

“Harry?”

Harry feels his body tense as he sits up abruptly in his bed. She’s standing at the side, tears streaming down her face. His heart feels heavy, and he aches to fix it.

“What happened?” he asks her urgently, gripping her shoulders. “Why’re crying? What happened?”

She shakes her head, tremors wracking her body. Her body sags into his a little. “I couldn’t save you! I’m sorry. I couldn’t–”

Suddenly, she’s gone. Harry’s alone, arms reaching out into an empty space before him. His eyes trace the room, expecting to see her hiding or popping out of his closet. But she doesn’t. He’s alone.

Until he’s not.

All the sudden, he’s in a car, sitting in the passenger side. He looks to the side, and the girl is driving, singing along to some pop song playing on the radio. Harry knows the song, though he can’t quite place the tune.

And it all happens in a span of seconds.

She’s looking over at him, smiling and laughing.

He sees the other car from behind her head, and he yells something.

Then the rest come in flashes.

He’s in and out of consciousness. There’s sirens blaring. Lights flashing. Movement. But he can’t find her.

“Everything’s going to be alright, sir.” Someone tells him, but he doesn’t think so.

His head feels fuzzy, and he still can’t see her. She’s gone.

He’s alone.

* * *

Harry wakes up in a jolt, heart beating entirely too fast. Sweat beading on his skin. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, though he wishes he never did.

He wants to go back. He wants to save her, but he knows it wasn’t real.

“I couldn’t save her,” he says to Dr. Danes, hours later.

Dr. Danes tilts her head to the side, an eerie smile on her lips. “No, Harry. She couldn’t save you.”

* * *

There are bright lights everywhere. People too. Harry struggles to navigate his way through the crowd, but then he sees her, and it’s as if the crowd completely clears.

 _She’s safe,_ he realizes with an ache in his chest.

“Hey!” he speaks over the music once he makes it to her. She turns to face him, eyebrows furrowing together.

“Um, hi?” Her head tilts to the side. “Do I- do I know you?”

Harry feels taken aback. “I’m Harry,” he tells her with a hand on his chest.

There’s suddenly recognition in her eyes, and she smiles widely.

_She recognizes me._

“Harry!” she exclaims, pushing her hand between them for him to shake. “My friends haven’t stopped talking about you, so it’s nice to finally meet you. I’m Monroe.”

“Monroe?” He tastes the name on his tongue. She nods, and he smiles. “Nice to meet you, Monroe.”

Monroe smiles again. “You too, Harry.”


	2. Maybe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *warning: brief non-descriptive sex scene in the chapter*

The florescent lights are too bright. The steady beeping is anything but calming. She sits by his bed, waiting. Watching the rise and fall of his chest, and attempting to commit it to memory–in case she never gets to see it again. She can’t help but think how fragile he looks. Far too fragile for comfort, and she’s afraid if she looks away, he’ll succumb to his newfound fragility.

So, she just sits and stares. Waits. Until she can see his eyes again. Until the rise and fall of his chest isn’t in danger of ceasing. She sits and waits.

And even though it’s not enough. Even though it doesn’t _feel_ like enough, for right now, it just might be.

Maybe she can make it out of this alive. Maybe _he_ can make it out of this alive.

Maybe.

* * *

Monroe.

It’s the name that rings in Harry’s head for days to come. He doesn’t do too much of anything but repeat her name over and over in his head. Monroe. Monroe. Monroe.

He doesn’t dare say it aloud (except for the times he sees her), but he does find himself mouthing it silently, playing with the two syllables on his tongue, knowing they sound beautiful even if they have no sound in that moment.

When he falls asleep, those two syllables gain sound, coming alive on his tongue, and he loves every second of it.

“ _Monroe_ ,” he says, but he doesn’t remember falling asleep. Though he must be asleep, because that’s the only time he says her name. Except this time, he didn’t simply _say_ it. He moaned it, deep and guttural.

“Harry,” she moans back, and Harry feels dizzy for a moment. There’s warmth everywhere. He _feels_ warm everywhere.

When Harry looks down, Monroe is underneath him, in his room, his bed, eyes closed and head tilted back in pleasure. His vision is momentarily blurry at the sight.

Her hands are suddenly on his back, pressing. “Don’t stop,” she pleads, sounding just shy of desperate. “ _Please,_ Harry, keep going, baby. Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t understand how this happened. How he managed to get her underneath him, but he can’t think of any scenario where he would stop. So, he doesn’t. Every nerve in his body is on fire, and he feels like if he lets go of her now, he’s going to combust. He needs her. Like this. In anyway she’ll allow him to have her, he’ll take it. He just needs her.

“ _Yes,_ ” she nearly hisses when he begins to move again, though he didn’t remember ever stopping. “Baby.”

In that moment, Harry aches to have his lips on hers. He just needs them, so he pushes forward, kissing her the way she deserves to be kissed, earning a moan in return that further ignites the fire within him. It’s almost as if all the stars align right before his eyes.

This is everything he needs. Everything.

“I love you,” he whispers fiercely against her mouth, not feeling like he’s lying in the slightest. This is his. “I love you.”

Before she responds, all the warmth in Harry’s body extinguishes. A gust of cold rushes through him that’s so fierce, he rears his body back.

Monroe is no longer underneath him.

He’s alone, and his room is darker than it once was, eerie almost.

“Monroe?” he calls out because he’s still asleep. He can call her name when he’s asleep, even if he doesn’t remember falling asleep.

Nobody answers, though Harry doesn’t expect anyone to.

He knows he’s alone, and a few hours later, he wakes up alone as well.

* * *

The very next day, he sits in Dr. Danes’ room, staring down at his hands. He doesn’t want to mention Monroe, but she’s all he can think about right now.

“How’s your anxiety, Harry?” Dr. Danes asks suddenly.

Harry looks at her. “My what?”

“Your anxiety,” she repeats as if he should know what that means. “Any episodes? Signs of PTSD?”

_PTSD? What?_

“I- I don’t have any anxiety, Dr. Danes.”

She writes something down on her notepad, pursing her lips. “So, no episodes?”

“No.” He shakes his head, “no episodes.”

Dr. Danes nods once, and Harry isn’t sure if she believes him or not. He wants to defend himself. He’s never had anxiety. He’s been anxious in his life before, for sure. Everyone has, but it’s never been a constant thing.

“What about pain? Are you in any pain?

Harry gives her an odd look before answering, “I mean, not physically?” he poses it as a question.

“What about mentally?”

He thinks for a moment, pretending he isn’t lying when he says, “I don’t think so. Not really.”

There’s a long pause. Harry watches as Dr. Danes writes word after word on her notepad. He doesn’t like the silence anymore, and he’s just about to fill it when Dr. Danes speaks once more.

“That’ll change soon,” she tells him, and when he gives her a confused look, she explains. “Your pain. It’ll come soon.”

“What are you– “

“Oh, look,” she interrupts, looking at the clock, “time’s up. We’ll continue you this next session.”

And then she’s gone.

* * *

“You alright, darling?”

Harry looks up to see his mum smiling over at him, holding out a cup of tea. He takes it, returning her smile before taking a sip of the drink. They’re both sitting in her house, and Harry takes a moment to fully absorb the familiar smell of his mother’s home. Sometimes, it smells more like home than his own.

“I’m alright, Mum,” he says quietly. “I’m just tired, I s’pose.”

He feels like he hasn’t slept in days, though he knows that’s not the case. He just hasn’t seen _her_ in days. Every time he falls asleep, hoping to see her face, she’s never there. He misses her more than he cares to admit.

“Maybe you should get more sleep,” Anne advices.

Harry shrugs, tilting his head to side. “Maybe.”

They both take a sip of their respective teas, silence floating around them for a few moments.

“Have you heard from Dad yet?” he asks Anne after placing his tea on the table in front of him.

Anne gives him a sad look. It’s a look Harry’s grown rather use to. It’s the look she always gives to him when he speaks about his dad. Almost as if she doesn’t want Harry bringing him up, but doesn’t want Harry to stop talking about him.

“I’m not waiting on word from your father, Harry,” she says gently. Always gently.

Harry nods once. “It’s a boy, right? They’re having a boy.”

“Harry, I don’t– “

Harry shakes his head, cutting her off. “It’s fine. At least he’ll finally be a father to someone, you know?”

“Harry, he’s still your father.”

He looks at her, tilting his head to the side. “Is he, though? Because I haven’t heard from him in nearly a year.”

“It’s complicated, honey. You don’t­–”

“Please.” He shakes his head, “please don’t say I don’t understand because I do.”

Harry stands up, setting his tea down on the table in front of him. Brushing his hands on his pants, he looks up at his mum, lips pressing together.

“He left you, Mum,” he says quietly. “He left both of us.”

And then he turns around and leaves, somehow feeling more tired than before.

* * *

Harry sees her for the first time in forever. Though this time, it’s in a scenario he’s certain he has already lived.

“Every alright?” she asks, eyes sparkling a little.

Harry is standing in the middle of an aisle on a plane. He looks down at Monroe as she sits in front of him, almost as if searching for guidance. He doesn’t find any. He rarely does.

“Me?” He finds himself saying, the word feeling strangely familiar on his tongue.

Monroe rolls his eyes, and Harry realizes a second too late that there’s fondness embedded in the gesture. “Yes, you. Who else would I be talking to?”

He finds himself at a loss for words, simply staring at the girl before him. Oh, how he’s missed her the past few days, and now that she’s in front of him, Harry doesn’t want to look away. Monroe takes his silence as hesitation because she’s rolling her eyes once again (fondly) before speaking.

“Baby, stop being weird and sit down,” she all but whines, patting the empty seat next to her. “The plane is going to be taking off soon.”

Harry does as he’s told. The sense of déjà vu only getting stronger as he takes a seat. Monroe immediately cuddles up to him, laying her head on his shoulder, and he finds himself wanting to sigh out in relief.

“You’re lucky I love you,” she whispers softly, and something warm fills Harry’s chest, “or else I’d realize what a weirdo you are.”

Harry finds himself chuckling out of pure happiness, and he can feel Monroe’s responding smile press against his shoulder. He doesn’t have to look to know it’s perfect.

“I’m gonna fall asleep soon,” she mumbles, sounding half asleep already.

Harry nods. “Okay, sleep, baby.”

He waits a beat or two before Monroe’s breath evens out, and he presses a small kiss onto her forehead, twisting his head to do so.

After that, the rest comes in flashes.

He knows he’s asleep, but it’s as if he’s partly conscious enough to _feel_ his dream.

He falls asleep in his dream to the sound of Monroe’s steady breathing.

Everything’s peaceful until it’s not.

Somehow, he wakes up in his own dream, still on the plane. Monroe is no longer cuddled against him. She’s awake and alert, looking almost scared.

Flight attendants are scurrying around, trying to find safety.

Then alarms begin going off.

The plane shakes while _Fasten your seatbelt_ appears over them. Harry looks at Monroe, tears streaming down her face.

Then everything goes dark.

When he wakes up again, he’s still in his dream, and for the first time in forever, he wishes he could wake up.

Monroe is no longer beside him. He’s still on the plane, though the plane is no longer in the sky. There’s smoke everywhere, and Harry’s entire body hurts. He doesn’t know if he’s ever _hurt_ in a dream before. He never knew that was possible, but he hurts.

There’s flashes of light outside the plane. Blues and reds, making his eyes sore, so he shuts them tight.

He can’t find her.

He can’t­–

“Everything’s going to be alright, sir.” Someone appears in front of him, talking gently.

For some reason, Harry doesn’t believe him.

He never finds Monroe.

A few hours later, when Harry wakes up from the dream, he can’t help but realize his body hurts.

He hurts. Everywhere. And he hopes maybe–just maybe­­–one day soon he won’t hurt anymore.


	3. Pain

The dream continues the same way it always does, and Harry almost wishes he would stop dreaming.

The plane shakes while _Fasten your seatbelt_ appears over them. Harry looks at Monroe, tears streaming down her face.

Then everything goes dark.

When he wakes up again, he’s still in his dream, and for the first time in forever, he wishes he could wake up.

Monroe is no longer beside him. (She’s always gone, and Harry always aches with it.)

He’s still on the plane, though the plane is no longer in the sky. There’s smoke everywhere, and Harry’s entire body hurts. He doesn’t know if he’s ever _hurt_ in a dream before. He never knew that was possible, but he hurts.

He hurts so much that he struggles to breathe through the immense pain. He can never breathe.

There’s flashes of light outside the plane. Blues and reds, making his eyes sore, so he shuts them tight.

_Monroe._

He can’t find her.

He can’t­–

“Everything’s going to be alright, sir.” Someone appears in front of him, talking gently.

For some reason, Harry doesn’t believe him.

He never finds Monroe.

The pain never goes away. Even when he awakes.

“How’re you feeling, Harry?”

Harry looks up to see Dr. Danes staring at him pointedly, a pen poised in her hand. It takes Harry just a second to register the question, but when he does, all he feels is pain. It never goes away, and Harry struggles to fight through it.

“Um,” he hesitates for a moment, shifting in his seat. “I feel pain.”

He doesn’t know why he says it. He doesn’t know why he admits to the unknown pain, but he does. He thinks that perhaps that will help the pain. Maybe admitting he’s in pain is the first step to make the pain go away. But it doesn’t go anywhere. It radiates through his body, but he can’t pinpoint where it starts. He just… _hurts._

Dr. Danes takes a moment to scribble in the notebook resting on her lap. She nods in understanding, and Harry briefly wonders how she can understand. But he can’t dwell on that fact for much too long because Dr. Danes begins to speak.

“Hopefully the pain will stop soon, Harry,” she tells him consolingly, glasses perched lowly. “We are trying our very best.”

Harry looks at her oddly. “What do you mean? Trying your best to do what?”

Danes shakes her head, smiling sadly. “The less you know, the better.”

“What?”

A timer goes off. “Sorry, time’s up. We’ll continue next time.”

Suddenly, she’s gone.

The next thing Harry sees is a light. A bright light. Almost blinding, but he can’t seem to look away from it. He doesn’t know where he’s at, but the light is nearly consuming him. He takes a step towards it. Then another. Another. Anoth–

“Harry?”

The light suddenly vanishes. He looks to his side and sees Monroe. Warmth explodes through him at the sight of her. Oh, how he’s missed her. He can’t believe she’s standing in front of him. He smiles widely, but then he sees the blood, and the smile drops. The color drains from his face.

“What happened?” He rushes towards her, gently touching the wound on her forehead. “Why’re you bleeding?”

Monroe ignores him, shaking her head. “Are you okay? Please tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he tells her, but he’s lying.

He knows he is. But he doesn’t _care._ He doesn’t care if he’s okay. He just needs to know she is. That is when the pain begins to magnify. The wound on Monroe’s forehead only seems to bleed more with his pain

Harry doubles over in pain, groaning. He watches the blood on Monroe’s face, and she watches him in pain. She cries out for him, but suddenly, he can’t hear her. He just sees the way her face twist in horror. She reaches out for him, but he can’t touch her.

“Monroe!” he tries to call out to her, but his voice isn’t working.

The pain is too much. He can’t speak. He can’t do anything. It hurts. It hurts too much.

Then Harry wakes up.

He’s drenched in sweat, a dull ache in his stomach. His eyes scan the room almost out of instinct even though he knows she won’t be there. The look on her face. The blood. All of it is etched in his brain, and he’s afraid he won’t ever be able to forget it.

He needs help.

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” he says at his next session. His eyes sting with unshed tears.

Dr. Danes looks up at him. “About what?”

“About my dreams,” Harry sighs. “I don’t know what to do, but they’re killing me. They’re tearing me apart.”

Dr. Danes laughs, but it doesn’t seem to hold any malice. “That’s not what’s killing you, Harry.”

“Then what is?” he asks, suddenly desperate. “Because I feel like I’m dying, and I don’t know what to do anymore.”

“I can’t tell you. You must figure it out for yourself.”

Harry didn’t know it was possible to feel this tired. His bones ache with it, and he hates every second of it. But he powers through, smiling at his mum as she pours him tea.

“She’s quite something, Harry,” she tells him, smiling sweetly.

Harrys brows draw together. “Who?”

“Monroe,” his mum says matter-of-factly. “I can see how much you care about her.”

Before Harry can say anything, Monroe walks into the room, and he loses his breath. The wound on forehead is nowhere to be seen, and Harry wonders if he imagined it. (Which he knows he did. He imagined her.)

“Hey, babe,” she smiles, and Harry’s stomach feels heavy. Monroe kisses him on the cheek before sitting down on the couch next to him.

Without hesitation, Monroe begins conversing with his mum, acting as if she’s know her all her life. Harry just watches for moment, not believing his luck. Or lack thereof.

The thing is, Monroe looks like she belongs. Like she belongs in Harry’s world, and maybe she does. But Harry just can’t shake the feeling that she isn’t real. She can’t be real. But he wishes she was, with everything he is.

He wants these moments to be real. He never wants to wake up if that means he gets to stay with Monroe for the rest of his life. Why would anyone want to leave their dream life? Their dream girl?

He looks up just in time to see Monroe laugh about something, and his heart begins to ache. For a fleeting moment, he doesn’t feel any pain. He doesn’t feel anything but happiness.

But then the moment’s over, and the pain consumes him.

“You seem off, mate,” Jeff tells him that following morning.

Harry had woken up with the same dull ache in his in stomach. Only this time, it migrated towards his chest, and he couldn’t breathe for a few moments.

Now he can breathe just fine. But a part of him wishes he couldn’t, and he’s not so sure why.

“I’m alright,” he shrugs, taking a sip of his coffee. The café around them is busy, but Harry doesn’t recognize a single person around him. “I’m just not sleeping well, I guess.”

Jeff nods, looking almost wistful. “You should probably wake up then.”

“What?”

“Never mind,” Jeff shakes his head. “Now why don’t you tell me about that girl?”

Harry looks around the room, almost certain that he’s dreaming. He never told Jeff about Monroe. He’s never spoken her name anywhere but in his dreams.

“What girl?” he asks slowly.

“Your dream girl,” Jeff says as if it’s obvious.

Harry frowns. “I don’t what you’re talking about, Jeff.”

He can’t talk about her.

He just can’t.

Talking about her in real life will make her seem less real. Subconsciously, Harry knows she’s not real. He gets it. But he wants her to be real. He wants her to be real so bad. He’s afraid that if he talks about her, she will feel fake.

He doesn’t think he can survive that.

Jeff suddenly looks sad. Far too sad than this conversation allots, and Harry doesn’t know what to do.

“Jeff, I–.”

“You need to wake up, Harry,” he tells him. “You really need to wake up.”

That night, Harry dreams of her again.

This time, it wasn’t the cheery dream from the night before.

“H-Harry,” Monroe says shakily, and Harry sits up in his bed. She is sitting next to him, tears staining her cheeks. “Harry, please.”

“What?” he says frantically. “What is it? What can I do?”

She shakes her head, a sob wracking through her body. Suddenly, she sags into him, and Harry holds her weight onto his own. Monroe cries, and with each passing second, Harry feels his throat grow tighter.

“Baby,” he whispers, kissing her temple. She doesn’t respond, only drooping more into his body.

Harry doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to fix this, and the more he thinks about it, the more he feels the pain welling up inside of him. And with each of Monroe’s cries, the pain only worsens. He doesn’t know how to stop it, but he wants it all to stop.

For the first time in forever, he wants to wake up. He doesn’t want to dream anymore.

“Harry,” Monroe cries again, and Harry’s hold on her tightens.

“What is it, baby?” he whispers, throat tight.

“Please, Harry,” she stutters out as her cries begin to dwindle. “Please.”

Harry draws back, hands framing her face as she gently pulls her from his neck. Her cheeks are stained with moisture, and her eyes are nearly bloodshot, but Harry still thinks she’s the most beautiful thing in the world.

The urgency seems to grow, and when he speaks next, he can hear the anxiety in his voice. “What is it, Monroe? What’s going on?”

She shakes her head yet still answers. “You have to wake up, Harry.”

“What?” he asks. “How do you–?”

“Wake up, please. You have to wake up. Wake up!”

Harry wakes up.

Except he’s not really awake.

He wakes up in another dream.

All the sudden, he’s in a car, sitting in the passenger side. He looks to the side, and Monroe is driving, singing along to some pop song playing on the radio. Harry knows the song, though he can’t quite place the tune.

And it all happens in a span of seconds.

She’s looking over at him, smiling and laughing.

He sees the other car from behind her head, and he yells something.

Then the rest come in flashes.

He’s in and out of consciousness. There’s sirens blaring. Lights flashing. Movement. But he can’t find her.

“Everything’s going to be alright, sir.” Someone tells him, but he doesn’t think so.

His head feels fuzzy, and he still can’t see her. She’s gone.

He’s alone.

When he wakes up, the pain is so bad he screams.


	4. Familiar

“Everything’s going to be alright, sir.” Someone tells him, but he doesn’t think so.

His head feels fuzzy, and he still can’t see her. She’s gone.

He’s alone.

When he wakes up, the pain is so bad he screams.

* * *

The light is too bright, and it stings his eyes as they flutter open.

His head is pounding, and his stomach is churning like he’s going to be violently ill any moment.

There is a faint whisper of voices, but he can’t really make out each word being said now. All he can think about is the pain. The pain was shooting from everywhere, prickling at his fingertips and toes. He feels lightheaded from its severity. He wants to scream, but his voice doesn’t seem to be working.

“He can’t–”

“Too much pain–”

“Medical coma–”

Then he passes out.

* * *

When he comes to, it’s a dream again.

He is sitting in an all-white room–no furniture, simply sitting on the floor. When he looks up, he locks eyes with a hazel pair, and he almost cries aloud with the familiarity of them.

“You need to wake up, Harry,” she says.

Harry frowns, wanting to reach out towards her, but his hands remain at his side.

“Why would I wake up if I can stay with you?” he asks.

“Because you don’t belong here.”

Harry shakes his head. “I belong with you.”

She smiles; a small, reserved one. “That’s why you need to wake up.”

“But I–”

Harry doesn’t get to finish. Suddenly, Monroe vanishes, and the pain consumes him.

* * *

Harry dreams a familiar dream.

“How’re you feeling, Harry?”

Harry looks up to see Dr. Danes staring at him pointedly, a pen poised in her hand. It takes Harry just a second to register the question, but when he does, all he feels is pain. It never goes away, and Harry struggles to fight through it.

“Um,” he hesitates for a moment, shifting in his seat. “I feel pain.”

He doesn’t know why he says it. He doesn’t know why he admits to the unknown pain, but he does. He thinks that perhaps that will help the pain. Maybe admitting he’s in pain is the first step to make the pain go away. But it doesn’t go anywhere. It radiates through his body, but he can’t pinpoint where it starts. He just… _hurts._

Dr. Danes takes a moment to scribble in the notebook resting on her lap. She nods in understanding, and Harry briefly wonders how she can understand. But he can’t dwell on that fact for much too long because Dr. Danes begins to speak.

“Hopefully the pain will stop soon, Harry,” she tells him consolingly, glasses perched lowly. “We are trying our very best.”

Harry looks at her oddly. “What do you mean? Trying your best to do what?”

Danes shakes her head, smiling sadly. “The less you know, the better.”

“What?”

A timer goes off. “Sorry, time’s up. We’ll continue next time.”

Suddenly, she’s gone.

Then there’s a bright light again, and Harry’s eyes sting.

“Mr. Styles?” A voice calls. It sounds familiar. He still wants it to stop. “Mr. Styles, if you can hear me, wiggle your left finger. Any finger.”

His eyes don’t open, and he can’t seem to move his finger. It takes too much effort. The pain is too much, and before long, there’s darkness again. 

* * *

Harry doesn’t dream anymore.

When he wakes up, he can open his eyes. And when he does, he finds two green eyes staring at him. They widen.

“Harry?” the green-eyed person says. “Can you hear me? Harry?”

Harry doesn’t answer. Can’t. His voice doesn’t seem to be working. He vaguely remembers the person, but he can’t quite place the name. They’re familiar.

“Harry, I’m going to go get Dr. Danes,” the person says, already standing up. “Stay awake, okay? Don’t fall asleep again.”

Harry watches as the person leaves. There’s a beeping sound in the background, and he tries to focus on the sound. His eyes can’t seem to focus on one thing, so he stares at the ceiling. It’s white.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

Harry’s eyes flutter. Suddenly, exhaustion settles in his bones.

 _The beeping_ , he reminds himself. _Stay awake._

His eyes grown heavier, and then he hears footsteps.

“No, Harry!” the person says. “Stay awake, please. Stay awake! Dr. Danes, do something!”

_Beep. Beep, beep, beep._

Then there’s the familiarity of darkness.

* * *

He feels like he has just fallen asleep when he wakes up again. This time, he remembers the person sitting at his bedside.

“Gem?” he whispers, but his throat hurts, and he coughs harshly.

Gemma jolts up, eyes wide again, but there is a brightness in them that wasn’t there the last time Harry saw them.

“Did you just say my name?” she asks in disbelief as if she can’t quite believe Harry remembers her.

Harry can’t think of anything other than, “Water.”

Gemma nods quickly, running to the bedside table and pouring a hefty cup-full of water. Walking up to Harry, she gently tilts his neck up, pressing the cup to his lips. Harry gulps it down in two seconds.

“More?” she asks, but before Harry can respond, she’s already pouring another cup.

They repeat this routine for another three times before Harry feels like his throat isn’t on fire. Gemma moves to sit, cupping one of Harry’s hands in hers. It’s then Harry notices the wires all over his arm. He looks up at Gemma, brows furrowing.

“How are you feeling?” she asks.

 _Pain,_ Harry wants to say. Instead, he says, “Where am I?”

“Harry,” Gemma sighs, eyes swimming with pity. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

The dreams.

Monroe.

The plane crash.

The car crash.

Paramedics.

Lights.

But it was all a dream. Wasn’t it?

“Accident,” he whispers.

Gemma nods solemnly. “Yes, there was an accident. A plane crash.”

“Plane?” he asks. “I thought– car?”

“There wasn’t a car acc–” Gemma is cut off by Anne walking into the room. Her eyes land on Harry, and they widen before filling with tears.

“You’re awake,” she whispers before walking to him. She leans forward, pressing her forehead to Harry’s. Harry can feel her tears on his cheeks (or perhaps they were his) as she whispers, “My baby.”

He stays like this for a moment or two before Dr. Danes walks into the room.

“Mr. Styles, it’s lovely to see that you’re awake,” she says kindly. Her smile is so familiar that Harry feels instantly at peace. “You gave us quite the scare.”

Harry looks from Anne to Gemma to Dr. Danes. “How long have a been out?”

“Almost two months,” Dr. Danes informs, hesitantly. As if nervous about how Harry is going to take this information.

Harry simply nods. His mind is too tired to fully digest everything, so he waits for Dr. Danes to continue. The pain is a steady thrum in his body, and his mind is growing a bit fuzzy because of it. Dr. Danes lips move, but Harry can only make out a few words here and there.

“–stable condition.”

“In a coma–“

“Baby is alive, but–“

The pain suddenly stops, and Harry’s eyes widen.

“Baby?” he rasps, eyes going wide.

He feels dizzy. And suddenly cold.

“Mr. Styles?” Dr. Danes sounds serious, imploring. “Mr. Styles, can you hear me?”

Familiar darkness. 

* * *

Harry dreams of her again.

But this time, she’s holding a small bundle in her arms.

“Monroe?” he asks, slowly walking up to them.

Monroe looks up at him. Her eyes look tired, and her skin is a sickly pale. But she still smiles when she looks at Harry. The bundle in her arms squirms, and Harry can the small face now. The button nose scrunches up briefly, but the baby remains sleeping peacefully.

“Is that–?” he trails off, unable to finish the sentence.

“Our baby,” Monroe nods her head. She looks down at the baby, and Harry feels dizzy with the amount of love he sees in her eyes.

Harry notices then that the baby is much too small, and their skin looks discolored.

“What’s wrong with them?” he asks quietly, itching to bend down and touch the soft skin but choosing not to. They looked much too fragile.

Monroe smiles sadly. “You need to wake up, Harry. And this time, you need to stay awake.”

“Are we together?” he asks, ignoring her request. “Not just in the dreams. In real life, are we together?”

“You need to wake up if you want to remember,” she repeats.

Harry looks down to the baby. The baby squirms, whining in their sleep. Monroe shushes them gently, pressing a kiss to their forehead. The baby settles.

“Will I meet them if I wake up?” he asks. “Are they real?”

Monroe simply smiles sadly. “Just wake up, love.”

Then she’s gone.

And the pain is back. But it's familiar.

* * *

When Harry wakes up again, he startles awake, scaring the nurse that is updating his chart. The nurse scurries off to get Dr. Danes, and as soon as Harry sees his doctor walk into the room, he remembers his dream.

“You were talking about a baby earlier,” he says before Dr. Danes can get a word out. “Is it mine?”

Her eyebrows furrow together in what Harry assumes is concern. “What do you remember, Mr. Styles?”

Harry shrugs. “Bits and pieces. Dreams, mostly.”

“Dreams?”

“A girl. I dreamt of this girl, and it all felt so real. She had a baby, and I thought–”

“Are you talking about Ms. Williams?” Dr. Danes asks.

“Monroe?” Harry says hopefully. “Is she real?”

Dr. Danes is silent for a moment, simply studying Harry. “Mr. Styles,” she finally starts, “I believe you’re suffering from acute memory loss due to your trauma.”

Harry doesn’t respond, waiting for the doctor to continue.

“I am going to explain the extents of your trauma and what you seem to be forgetting,” she tells him. “If you become too overwhelmed, please let me know, and I will continue at a later date. Do you understand?”

Harry nods once.

Dr. Danes takes a deep breath. “As I think you know, you were involved in a plane accident. It was a private plane, so only you and Ms. Williams were aboard. They pilot unfortunately did not make it. For the last almost three months you have been in and out of a medically-induced coma to help regulate the healing and reduce pain.

You came to us with a partially collapsed lung, several broken rips, hips, one broken leg, and internal bleeding. We managed to counteract most of these injuries in surgery, and the rest, we’ve plastered them.”

Dr. Danes pauses, and Harry waits for a moment until, “What about Monroe?”

“When she came to us, she was eight months pregnant, and the pregnancy was at risk. We were able to deliver the baby safely, but we almost lost Ms. William during surgery,” Dr. Danes sighs heavily. “Luckily, we were able to revive her and placed her under a medical coma. Unfortunately, she hasn’t woken up yet, and there aren’t any signs that she’ll wake up anytime soon.”

Something cold pricks at Harry’s heart. “What is she to me? How do I know her?”

Dr. Danes looks sad. “Mr. Styles, she’s your fiancé and the mother of your child.”

**Author's Note:**

> come chat with me on tumblr @harry-styleswho xx


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